


Rendezvous

by Evandar



Series: Daily Deviant Fics [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Biting, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Clothed Sex, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 10:56:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17303330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: They've wanted each other for a long time. Too bad they're on such opposite sides.





	Rendezvous

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Kinky Kristmas prompt on Daily Deviant.

He staggers when a hand shoots out of the darkness and grasps his wrist. Caught off balance, he’s dragged into shadow, but he’s not an Auror for nothing. The tip of his wand finds the underside of a jaw, and his assailant laughs softly. In their darkened corner, a body presses closer to his own, heedless of the threat of his wand to their throat. The laugh, the possessive clutch at his wrist, are achingly familiar, and he knows _exactly_ who he’ll see when his eyes manage to adjust to the gloom.

“Rabastan,” he hisses.

The laughter fades to a giggle and the hand around his wrist loosens, slides up his arm to his shoulder and pulls him closer. “So, you _do_ remember, Kingsley-love.”

Kingsley squints at him. All he can see is the silhouette of Rabastan’s wild black hair and the glitter of his eyes, but he knows that he’s smiling. He can hear it. He knows the exact way that Rabastan’s lips curve; the pronounced upward tick to the left and the crooked lower incisors. Rabastan is feeling along his shoulders, and Kingsley jumps slightly when cold fingertips brush his skin at the edge of his collar. He presses harder with his wand, and feels Rabastan’s body jolt in response.

It was this way in Hogwarts, he remembers. A rough rivalry on the Quidditch pitch that led to flirting in the hallways and the passing of some wonderfully explicit notes that he’s kept hidden ever since. They never went further, no matter how much they’d wanted it. He _still_ wants it. Wants Rabastan to enact every filthy promise he ever wrote.

He doesn’t lower his wand, not even when he surges forward to kiss that smile off Rabastan’s lips. The other moans, shockingly loud in the dark, and Kingsley pulls away to listen carefully. All he can hear is heavy breathing and the hammering of his own heart; in the distance, in one of the other chambers, the Order clashing with Death Eaters in order to defend the prophecy. He and Rabastan, on opposing sides, are alone.

Rabastan whispers an incantation between them, the hand not on Kingsley’s neck lifting as he casts a privacy ward. The rush of his magic makes goose-bumps break out on Kingsley’s arms and neck; Rabastan’s magic has always felt Dark, even when they were in school – a side-effect of his upbringing, most likely, though it’s only grown worse in the years since. But as Dark as he is, that crooked smile of his tastes so sweet. With privacy ensures, Kingsley returns to his task; he licks into Rabastan’s mouth and twists his fingers in his hair, yanking his head back even as he shoves Rabastan backwards, deeper into the dark and up against a wall.

Rabastan laughs into their kiss and the hand at Kingsley’s throat tightens, fingernails digging in to his flesh. The tip of a wand digs into his hip, and he pushes forward into it – into Rabastan. Rabastan’s hard under his robes, and eager; Kingsley knows he could die for pursuing this, knows _exactly_ what Rabastan’s capable of, but knows that he won’t stop.

He bites kisses along Rabastan’s jaw and down his neck, feeling hips roll and thrust against his own. Laughter turns to gasps and moans, and fingers flex at his neck, scrabbling at the fastenings of his collar. He’ll leave bruises in his wake. If they’re going to do this, he wants Rabastan to remember it; wants him to feel it for _days_.

_He’s wanted it for too long to have him any other way._

He licks between the tip of his wand and the tender flesh on the underside of Rabastan’s jaw before digging his wand in deeper. Rabastan makes a soft, choked noise that could be pain – probably is, although he still seems to be enjoying himself if the erection pressing into his own is anything to go by.

Images flash through Kingsley’s mind – thoughts of what they could do. Rabastan on his knees like he always promised – threatened? – letting him fuck his throat and come on his face and chest; they could use their hands on each other like horny school boys in an abandoned classroom, kissing and stroking. If he thought he could get away with it without Rabastan disembowelling him, he’d try turning him to the wall and fucking into him from behind, but there’s still a wand pressing into his hip with dark intent.

Rabastan’s free hand is moving slowly downwards, unfastening clasps and buttons and tearing at Kingsley’s undershirt. His fingers slip inside, clawing at Kingsley’s pectorals and catching on the hoop threaded through his nipple. His breath catches. His hips thrust instinctively, and Rabastan laughs again – soft, breathy, triumphant – as he curls a finger into the hoop and pulls. 

“Full of surprises, aren’t you love?” he purrs, tugging harder at the metal. 

Kingsley growls. He releases his grip on Rabastan’s hair and attacks his clothes instead. Death Eater robes are voluminous, and under them, Rabastan is wearing little. Kingsley pushes them up around Rabastan’s waist and shoves his hand into his underwear. Rabastan’s cock is hot against his hand, shorter and thinner than his own, and circumcised. Kingsley strokes him hard, fast; considers, for one moment, getting down and taking Rabastan into his mouth, before reconsidering. It would be suicide – probably. Not that Rabastan seems to care: he bucks his hips and whines softly, letting his head fall back against the wall.

His wand twitches against Kingsley’s hip. He tenses, gripping Rabastan hard in the process, but all the spell does is finish opening the fastenings of his robes. He relaxes. A glance at Rabastan’s face, still mostly obscured by shadow, shows the dips and traces of a grin.

“Want you to fuck me,” Rabastan says by way of explanation. “Couldn’t do that with those in the way.”

“Got anything to ease it?” Kingsley asks. 

Rabastan just shrugs. “Magic –“ he says in a sing-song way, and he rakes his nails down Kingsley’s front to rub him through the cloth of his boxers. “Though it might not be enough, hmm?”

It’s an odd feeling, he thinks, to be infuriated and nostalgic for the same person. Even stranger to be feeling it while holding their cock in his hand and pinning them to the wall. Azkaban has, more likely than not, left Rabastan madder than a bag of cats, but it’s currently hard to tell. He was always a weird, vicious, irritating little shit, and it’s part of why Kingsley’s always been fascinated by him.

It occurs to him that, once they’ve done this, they’ll go their separate ways and Kingsley will have to at least _try_ and capture Rabastan; arrest him and send him back to Azkaban until his precious Dark Lord breaks him out again. It’s… uncomfortable.

He removes his wand from Rabastan’s throat long enough to cast lubricating and preparation spells, anyway.

It’s something of a blur from that point; an endless, desperate cycle of panting and scratching and thrusting. There are some things, though, that he knows he’ll remember forever: the high, keening noise Rabastan makes when he pushes into him, and the way he sounds when he’s sobbing and cursing Kingsley’s name. The way Rabastan’s blood tastes when he bites down too hard by accident, and the noise Rabastan makes when he comes.

They cling to each other, just a little, in the aftermath; Rabastan presses kisses to his collarbone as he leans against him, unable to stand on his own, and Kingsley gives in to the temptation to press his face into that wild hair. Rabastan smells, inexplicably, of cardamom. At some point, they’d both lowered their wands, and there’s a moment when they’re standing together where it’s hard to remember why he’d needed it. 

The memory brings with it a wave of guilt and nausea, but he still doesn’t push Rabastan away. He lets the Death Eater cuddle against him a moment longer, reminding himself of the times _before_ the war when, huddled over joint projects or hurling taunts at each other on the Quidditch pitch, he could pretend that Rabastan was a good person. He freezes when Rabastan pulls back and raises his wand. Again, though, the magic is harmless; cleansing their skin and righting their robes. He returns the favour, healing the bruises and bitemarks colouring Rabastan’s neck. It’s possible, in the dark, that he misses one or two, but the thought of Rabastan carrying a souvenir of this away with him is pleasing somehow. He intends to keep the scratches all up and down his chest and back for as long as he can, after all.


End file.
